The young woman began to speak; she had a wonderful, musical contralto, and she knew how to use it to gain her listener’s attention. Kero listened closely and carefully as Talia explained what had brought them. The girl’s Rethwellan wasn’t bad, but her accent and occasional odd turn of phrase made it very clear that she didn’t have complete mastery of the language yet.

“... and so my Queen has sent me here, directly, rather than to speak through her embassy. You will have heard, your majesty, of the events in Hardorn these past two years?” the young woman asked. Faram nodded, and she clasped her hands behind her. Only Kero was near enough to see that those hands were white-knuckled with tension. She’s scared to death, Kero realized with surprise. She’s nowhere near as casual as she seems about this; it’s a life-and-death situation, and she knows it. But she’s not going to give that away. She felt herself warming to the young woman, for no apparent reason other than a feeling that she was going to like this Talia.

“Ancar of Hardorn is friend to no man, and no nation,” Talia continued flatly, and there was something in her lack of expression that sent off vague feelings of alarm in Kero. After a moment she realized what it was. Severely traumatized veterans would speak in that flat, expressionless tone, about the battle experiences that had broken them.

What on earth could King Ancar have done to the Queen’s Own Herald? And how did he happen to get hold of her? And why? Something terrible had happened to this young woman at Ancar’s hands, she was as certain of that as she was of her own name.

And so was Need. For the first time in years, Kero felt the blade stirring.

“Ancar is guilty of regicide and patricide,” Talia continued. “He has visited terrors that no sane man would countenance on his own people, and he has turned to dark powers to grant him his desires. I have proofs of this with me, if you would care to see them.”

Faram shook his head, and indicated that she should go on.

“We stopped him once, we of Valdemar,” she said. “We held him at our Border and turned him back. Now he amasses a new army, one of men and steel rather than magic, and he marches again on our Border.”

“So what is it you want?” Faram asked, leaning back in his chair so that his face was in shadow and could not be read.

“Your aid,” Talia said simply. “We simply don’t have enough armed men to hold him back this time.”